With Every Inhale of Breath
by Virodeil
Summary: Inspired by the "Smells" Bingo card used in B2MeM 2012. In 24 pieces or more, a character study of Morzan according to the "smell" given for that particular piece. *Warning: Rey-verse* Smell 1: Pine Trees: Morzan adored those "pine-like" people and they loved him back.


Title: Pine Trees  
Author: Eärillë

Summary: Morzan adored pine trees: He was surrounded by pine-trees and "pine-like" people, and they loved him, and he loved them. But now …  
Rating: PG  
Warnings: (minor) Character Death, (mild) Insanity, (thoughts of) Suicide Attempt  
Beta-Reader: A Ghost Who Walks

Credits: prompt-maker and prompt-designer of the "Smells" Bingo card in B2MeM 2012, A Ghost Who Walks who was willing to beta-read for this piece (Thanks muchly, Ghostie!), fanfics of character study about Morzan on , Duskchild for her portrayal of Oromis' relatives  
Dedication: For those who don't think Morzan in a completely evil way, for my old buddies on Shur'tugal FanFiction, for Erosaf (first reviewer of this particular piece), and for KyMahalei who loves pine trees  
Disclaimers: I don't own _The Inheritance Cycle_, obviously. I'm not trying to demean or belittle people who bear the name "Morzan" as well; it just happens that in my made-up dictionary, the name has a different meaning.

Universe: Rey-verse  
Series: With Every Inhale of Breath  
Type of Story: One-shot  
Type of Content: Stream-of-consciousness  
Word Count: 3,378 in MS Word 2003

Timeline: a few years after the fall of the Riders  
Location: a palace garden in Urû'baen  
Genres: Angst, Character Study, Family, Fluff, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Spiritual, Tragedy  
Characters: Evandar, Galbatorix, Morzan, OCs

Challenge Title: Smells  
Challenge Source: Back to Middle-earth 2012  
Challenge Details: Pine Trees

Story Notes: Despite the source of the challenge prompts, this collection is _not_ a crossover. And seeing that the competition from which I took the challenge from was about playing Bingo cards, this challenge package consists of 24 prompts. And for this collection, _all_ of them will be about Morzan, in various ratings, situations, conditions, etc. Oh, and there is _definitely_ much of Rey-verse here especially for Morzan's past, although the timeline and characters and most of others adhere to Book-verse, so apologies in advance for strict canon lovers out there, and I hope you won't flame me for this.

Author's Notes: My first foray back into the fandom of _The Inheritance Cycle_ after years of absence, and ironically enough it is about a character which I used to despise: Morzan. I have many excellent Morzan-portraying authors on FFN to thank for this, for the inspiration they have unwittingly given me.

O*O

Pine Trees  
By: Eärillë

People are always asking why I have pine trees everywhere, in all the places either designated by others or claimed by myself as my home. Those nosy, spying, gossiping, bad-mouthing strangers: they never know. I never deign to answer them: never genuinely in some cases and not at all in most. My life should be known only by me, and my things should be own only by me; they have no right to know, not even to ask – intrude on my privacy.

I have only a handful of precious loved ones anyway, which number has decreased by quite much after the fall of the Old Order, so I always try my best to guard them closely. I only would love to spare myself from grief of loss and vulnerability of exposure, especially now that I have too many enemies to count. What is the shame or the fault in that? But they – those nasty, filthy _cockroaches_ – always give me those veiled glares and stares that make my skin itch and my blood boil whenever they catch me doing so. But they are _not_ my _family_, and I _only_ belong to my _family_, and my family _alone_ can know my secrets – most of them, at least. (The only persons who have rightly earned to know _all_ my secrets are my _adoptive_ parents, who are most likely dead by now and out of reach in any case, and my no-longer-there red-scaled sister-twin.)

I stretch languidly on the thick bed of pine needles, feeling soaked in a tide of melancholy; stare gloomily up at the branches above: thick, dark, bristling, quite like me, like my life so far. I sigh, then inhale the scent of crushed pine needles as deeply as I can, spread my arms and legs wide, then exhale slowly, bring my legs back together and tuck my arms under my head. Lovely still, here, despite everything. I do not need to watch out for intruders as well, as I have set wards to alert me of any kind of sentient intrusion and flying objects save birds.

I … crave this quiet solitude, accompanied only by my beloved pine tree, however brief it may turn out to be. No more stares, whether blatant or veiled, positive or negative. No more whispers behind my back. No duties, no responsibilities, no expectations, no demands, no stereotypes, no back-stabbing politics. Just _me_: myself and the tall, dark, solemn pine tree standing centry over my private nook on the palace gardens, and the pine needles crushed beneath my frame, and of course the memories – they always catch up with me in moments like this, and I cannot avoid it, avoid them.

I do not want to; half of me does not want to avoid them, avoid the past. I was regarded with genuine love, pride and respect by a select few, and I cherished it – cherish it even now, especially now. And I want to remember, just _be_, for a while, back in the time where my family – a ragtag bunch of people glued together by choice and by fate, but mostly not by blood or by name – still lived and enjoyed the world together with me.

A bittersweet feeling for certain, but I shall not exchange moments like this with any riches in the world. It is always the same, never changing: tearing apart old wounds while healing new ones at the same time, hurting and healing me, imprinting itself deeper and deeper into my psyche with each repetition, but I cannot survive, cannot endure without these memories, the evidence that I was not always like this, that a handful of people did not regard me as a monster in humanoid guise.

My earliest memories are ironically some of the worst that I have. Not quite strange perhaps, since my _birth_-parents rejected me right after I was born: my birth-father wanted a daughter at last after the four sons that he had, one that he could show off in state functions and marry off for the advancement of his power, I suppose; and my birth-mother wished that I had been 'normal' like other children, with a normal pair of eyes (instead of one large and black and terrifying "like the abyss" she said, and the other small and blue and wicked "like an icy spear" she said) and a normal bubbly demeanour (which she must have interpreted as "loud and chattery"), born under 'normal' circumstances too instead of during the new-moon night in midwinter (where evil spirits and creatures roamed free and rebirthed themselves anew in the form of changelings, or so she and her clique believed): that superstitious, heartless, brainless creature which does not even deserve my contempt. My birth-father even refused to look at me at all after the midwife had informed him of my successful delivery. And my birth-mother … Well, she gave me the name that I am using now: Morzan, which means "Evil Taint" or "Unholy Smudge" in Palleon, the old tongue of the humans. My _birth_-_mother_. She believed me to be an evil changeling and thus marked me for evil deeds with that very name, only because of my eyes and my silent demeanour and the time of my birth. To think that my birth-parents were at the time the King of the Broddring Kingdom and his consort. (But as a newborn baby, I only felt unsated hunger and unthawed chill then, which turned out to be unsurprising, when I found out about it once I was far older and managed to squirrel it out of Ré'a's lips, since no wet nurse was willing to give her milk to me after looking at my eyes – one small and blue and the other large and black.)

If I had not been given to my adoptive parents that same day, then I would have died. But perhaps, especially given who I have become … Ah no, they would not like where my thoughts are leading me. They always tried to steer me the other way whenever they caught me toying with the idea of killing myself or having someone kill me. (I wonder if they would do the same now … Or perhaps, gladly or otherwise, they would permit me an early death?)

In any case, since I was very small, either my adoptive mother or my adoptive father or both always brought me to the gardens whenever I felt despondent, which they claimed shone through my countenance – something noticed by only a few others of my family. Né'a said that she first brought me to among a field of blooming flowers. (Ré'a, prim and proper Ré'a, always laughed his rare uproarious laughter whenever she mentioned that to me, perhaps because of her constipated look – which I have to admit was quite comical – or my reaction in the recounting, or perhaps both.) I was barely three days old then, she said, and nothing that she or Ré'a did could make me smile at them. So she brought me there … I think fate, or my birth-father, or my birth-mother, or most likely the three of them, have cursed me with early-developed near-photographic memory, for I could remember that day clearly. And part of it was _horrible_, although I could see the humour in it when I was older.

I can still remember being wrapped in something soft and warm and nestled in a pair of smaller, softer arms which meant Né'a was the one holding me. Mere proximity and intimacy with her had brightened my mood; but apparently she was not satisfied with it and continued with her plan, alas for me. She kept walking, and I could hear the heavier set of footsteps of Ré'a following her.

I was shifted and partially released from my cocoon an indeterminate time later, before Né'a's delicate-feeling hands helped me sit more upright in her arms, leaning against the centre of her chest. Crooning, she coaxed me to turn my sight to what was before me. But sight was not my forte then, nor my preferred sense; sound and smell and touch were, until I was much older than three days old. So I just inhaled a breath, expecting to smell the crisp air that had greeted me since I had been born, and also the unique smell of damp wood that until then I associated with safety. But what I got then was something … cloying, which tickled my nose and stomach and made me want to both sneeze and throw up and wail.

So I _wailed_, as loudly as I could. I wailed and kicked and struggled and flailed, desperate to expel the smell from my body and escape its source at the same time. I think Né'a and Ré'a were shocked then, since – they told me when I was six or so – I had never shown any extreme reaction or emotion before, not even when I was hungry, thirsty, afraid or uncomfortable. But to me then, the reaction was perfectly justified.

Ré'a took me from Né'a in the midst of my tantrum, encircling me within his rougher, tougher arms and stronger scent. My ears were greeted with the sound of his chuckle as my body felt the vibration thrumming in his chest. I heard him say something to Né'a as he walked away from the source of the cloying odor, but I was too shocked and grumpy to do anything but whimper and let out an occasional cry.

And then something else hit my nose, as sharp as before but refreshingly so and with another kind of heaviness in it. When I was older, much older than the infant I had been, I could finally describe it both to myself and my parents – _adoptive_, of course – and I even tried to recreate it using various chemicals: tangy, earthy, watery, leafy, shady, woody, and something else that I can never describe directly even now, which has always given me the impression of quiet strength and dignity and calm, cool protection from heat. But as of then, I just perked up, ceasing my tantrum, and inhaled deeply again. Unlike before, however, I did it with no complaint but instead took another inhale, and another, and another, and another …

Ré'a laughed his uproarious laughter soon after, and it was the first time I heard it, and I could hear the strength and dignity and earthiness of the wonderful fragrance in his voice. I loved it; I _do_ still. I love them – Ré'a and the special scent.

Né'a's chuckles mixed in with Ré'a's a little later, full with a confusing tangle of emotions that I did not know then: a sense of mystery that nonetheless comforted me, just like the scent I had greedily inhaled. And when she took me from Ré'a and cradled me close to her chest as she was still chuckling, I felt the lithe woodiness of the fragrance in her bearing. I heard the gentle, quiet rustling that accompanied the fragrance in her voice as she whispered a name to me, alongside the name my adoptive parents had given me – Orailesk, "Light Bringer" – in its shortened form: "It is pine, Orri, a pine tree and her fallen needles. Would you like to touch the needles? They are cosy and soft for an outdoor bedding." I did not know most of what she was saying then, except that she intended it for me and invited me to be closer with the fragrance that now had a name. So of course, I heartily agreed, thus inviting another bout of mingled laughter from my parents.

The next time I was reacquainted in a different way with the fragrance was when I was a month old, according to Né'a. It was also when I was physically acquainted with her adoptive brother, my Rainya Áltor, after many times seeing him through the flat shiny thing Né'a liked to use to talk with people, which I much later found out as an enchanted mirror. I was beginning to use my sight more often then, and I was glad that Rainya Áltor's profile was sharper now that I saw him in person. And he smelled _wonderful_. He smelled like the fragrance I loved when he took me from Ré'a. Then, as he was reintroducing himself to me, he walked towards something that bore an even-stronger tang of the same fragrance that I loved.

I could see what it was when he supported my body upright: a tiny version of the same pine tree in our garden, under which my parents and I had been spending nearly every afternoon since the day they had learnt that I loved it.

I squealed in joy and beamed at the tiny tree, trying to reach out to it at the same time.

He laughed a rich, unrestrained laughter, and I could detect a mixture of Ré'a's strength and dignity and Né'a's comfort and mystery in it, tempered with a strange kind of solemnity that reminded me of our pine tree's shade and bearing. I loved it – no, I loved them _all_: his scent (no doubt due to how long and intimately he had been working with the pine trees to create that tiny tree), his laughter, the tiny tree itself … Much, much later, after I had become a Dragon Rider, Ré'a confessed to me that Rainya Áltor's laughter then had been an unexpected gift, much like the tiny tree he had given me, and Né'a backed up the statement with a watery smile and told me that things had been even harder for her brother in those days. I had to agree with them, alas, as I came in ever-increasing contact with him later on, watching how jaded and strained the man had become. He was no longer my tiny-pine-tree giver; he felt, smelled, sounded and looked more like a _burnt_ pine tree himself.

And then the horrible years of slaughter, betrayal and grief came down upon us all. And now the person who used to be my Rainya Áltor is like a _charred_, skeletal pine tree to all my senses.

No no no no no no no … I am not here to mourn about the present – no no no no no no no … I hate it. It always comes down to this. No no no no no – flee, flee, red, red, remember red glossy egg, do not remember the sad red beast she has become – no no no no! – red, red egg nestled in one elven arm, resting so peacefully there as the owner of the arm watched me with gentle curiosity with his pine-green eyes …

I curl up sidewise on the bed of pine needles, hear them rustle and smell their fragrance as I move, but it is not enough. It is not enough to stem the pain, to stem the horrible memories, to stem my tears and my scream and my longing to what now can never be. My hands move instinctively, scooping the needles in sweaty, claw-like fingers, crushing them in trembling fists, bringing them to my eyes and nose and lips as I can no longer stifle the sobs and the tears. Né'a, Ré'a, Rainya Áltor, Papap Evandar, Papap Nellon, Aunt Faelaris, Uncle Erinel, Lifaen, Narí, Nalyar, Master Oromis, Brom, Árnoth, Ídeith, my dear, dear red-scaled sister-twin who now no longer – no no no no no _no_!

I rub the crushed pine needles all over my face with desperate, jerky swipes, inhaling their fragrance deeply, feeling their rough texture acutely, longing for everything and everyone that I have lost and will never get back.

Pine trees, green, laughter, embraces, comfort, shelter, dignity, mystery –

Promises …

They promised me – no, _he_ did: Evandar, the 'unofficial' Rider of my red-scaled sister-twin's egg-mother Talita, who insisted on me calling him and Nellon (Mother Talita's 'original' Rider) "Father" in the dearest term I would consent to calling them, since – he reasoned quite convincingly and sincerely at that – they were in a way my fathers also; and he promised me, said because he was the one with mate at that time, he would more likely be able to fulfil it: He _promised_ me a _little sister_, a sister out of the bond between he and his mate, a sister with eyes as green as his and scent as lovely as the pine trees that I adored – that I do still. He asked me to love her and cherish her as he did to me and would undoubtably do to her.

Now I do not know if he has fulfilled the promise or not, and I had better _not_ know for her sake, but in my desperate imaginings he _has_, and I have a _sister_, and I behold her pine-green eyes, play with her, embrace her, inhale her pine-needle scent, tell her that I love her, that I will take care of her, that I will protect her for all my life as her father did and _tried_ in the end despite everything before Rolva's wicked spear pierced his chest instead of mine.

A hoarse sob turns into a jerky, histerical chuckle, and I pound the bed of pine needles beneath me with my fists, my chest heaving with an unuttered scream of rage and grief and loss and deranged hilarity. I writhe and scatter the pine needles with my limbs and crush them in my fists just to be flung away back to the ground to join their still-_whole_, still-_perfect_ family. Pain pain pain pain pain – no no, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale – they are still there, even if only in my memories, still out there, waiting for me, loving me, with the pine trees and the green hues and the laughter and the embraces. Still out there …

Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, inhale.

Must live. Must live. Must live. Must live. Must live. Must live. For them all; for Né'a (staring at who I had become with numb disbelief and horror during the Battle of Dorú Areaba), for Ré'a (so dignified and handsomely large even in death, bathed in his own blood), for Rainya Áltor who-is-no-longer-there, for (foolish, but so, so brave, so loving even till the end) Papap Evandar, for (so, so silent, even in acute grief and horror, loving in his own way) Papap Nellon, for the lovely orange Mother Talita, for the (close-knitted, excentric) Thrandurins, for Nalyar (so heart-broken, staring dumbly at Rainya Áltor who-was-no-longer-recogniseable from her place fighting on the blood-soaked ground with Yaela and Wyrden and the wolf-pelted cousins Blödhgarm and Liotha and the red-eyed werecat Solembum), for the little twins Árnoth and Ídeith that were my pseudo-siblings but wrenched apart by this vicious war, for Brom whom-I-was-forced-to-betray, for my no-longer-there red-scaled sister-twin, for the pine-green, pine-scented could-be sister …

Exhale, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale.

Let go, let go, let go, let go. They are free. They are laughing. They are untouched by evil, by who I have become. They are fragrant, loving, dignified even in death, dignified even in grief, dignified even in horror, away, so far away, but safe, free, warm, beautiful, loving – I tremble all over. My eyes turn even warmer and tighter, as if an invisible hand wished to both crush and burn my eyeballs. I shift and lie down on my stomach, with my face planted into the bed of pine needles.

Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale.

The tree from my babyhood is safe. She is standing guard over me right now, watching me, whispering to me, showering me with her precious pine needles, loving me, reminding me of those I can no longer laugh with, wrestle with, embrace, learn with, learn from, and tease … reminding me that I can still _love_ them, love her too, despite everything.

A gust of damp breeze passes by. The pine tree sighs. The pine needles underneath waft around slightly and emit their lovely fragrance. I smile a watery smile and relax a little.

It is always worth to be here, to enjoy the pine tree's company, to flee to the unreachable past for a moment, despite everything.

It gives me a reason to live, and it gives me a reason to die.

O*O

Translation: Old Human Language of Alagaësia, invented/adapted by Rey:  
Né'a: Mummy  
Rainya: (Rainé'a) the younger brother of one's mother (a term more affectionate than "Uncle" but cannot be otherwise well-expressed in English)  
Ré'a: Daddy

Pronunciation:  
Áltor: AA-LL-(soft)DH-AU-RR  
Árnoth: AA-RR-NN-AU-TH  
Erinel: EHH-RR-EE-NN-EHH-LL  
Faelaris: FF-EI-LL-AA-RR-EE-SS  
Ídeith: EE-DD-EE-TH  
Nalyar: NN-AA-LL-YH-AA-RR  
Né'a: NYH(Spanish "Ñ")-EHH-(pause)-AA  
Nellon: NN-EHH-LL-AU-NN  
Orailesk: AU-RR-OOH-LL-EHH-KH(Germanic "ch")  
Orri: AU-RR-EE  
Palleon: PP-AA-LL-OU-NN  
Rainya: RR-OOH-NN-YH-AA  
Ré'a: RR-EI-(pause)-AA


End file.
